The Princess' Tapestry
by VoltageStone
Summary: She's the princess of her kingdom, and many want her to become a queen with a strong king by her side. Princess Bubblegum isn't keen, however. There are only so many who understand how it's like to live the long life in the body of a young woman. In the dead of night, sometimes she's found wandering the halls. It's to the point of comfort, especially when she knows she's not alone.


It's only when my butler is due to stop roaming the halls that I come out of my room. In this tower, _my_ tower, there are limited guards; they stand dutifully at its base. Small torches line the walls, though the orange glow of the candles are insignificant in contrast to the moon. I brush my hand against the wall in deep thought. It had been a long, tiring day, and no matter how much gin I drank, the aches of long conferences still haunt me.

I stumble down a step, quietly yelping to myself.

It's possible I had one too many. ...or three.

I assure you, I'm not drunk. I'm only the slightest bit tipsy. Just enough to startle me down a step or two. ...three. I lick my lips briefly, tasting the last of my drink away. Its buzz is another quaint ache in my body, yet welcomed. Even so, I can't help but admit to myself it's not enough. Like the past few months, nothing's enough to replace whatever in me is missing.

I pause at a landing. My eyes cruise to the window, the full moon hanging from the corner of it. For a moment, I wonder how many times I've seen the moon as full as it is, and how many more times I will. The thought drops the bare smile I've been wearing. My eyes then drift to my side, taking in the tapestry that has hung there for several deca— I catch myself. It's been nearly a century-and-a-half. Two years shy, even. It's the long table—which doesn't quite reach the width of the tapestry, so it sits in the exact middle—that's been a few decades. I frown to myself as I thumb the edge of the tapestry's worn material. I've been slowly loosing track of the years that have passed. I can't let it happen. I can't let time slip from between my fingers this easily.

Wearily, I rest my head against it, indulging in the musky smell that comes from the tapestry. It's of dust and cobwebs. Of dirt that knows a different time—a different era. I had it sewn when this tower was built, the first landmark of the castle to come. I lean away from it briefly, eyeing the princess dressed in a dated pink gown sitting alone on her throne. I sadly play with the loose string that bunches at her clasped hands.

Earlier this month, I heard the maids tell the newcomer about this tapestry. The tale of a princess found trapped in the ice and snow. Melted out. Confused and in strange clothes that weren't the simplistic garb of the time. Recognized as the source of wisdom of the land, and sat on the throne. Yes, and according to the maids, ever since then, the lineage is of only princesses, each with a "phantom suitor" that snuck into her bedroom.

I sigh solemnly, looking at the princess in the tapestry. _I really haven't grown since then, have I?_

My eyes burn as I lean back into the tapestry. I have no recollection of who I was or what the world was before being pulled out of the snow; the Mushroom War is responsible, I assume. It wiped everything away, leaving me nothing but my body and clueless, leaderless people to take responsibility over. But that day, I remember it well: Everything was so cold, and my head swam, and my eyes burned, and the sun was out, and...and I couldn't fathom how I knew it was a _jacket_ that I wore, and _jeans_, but I where I got them? How I got there? I don't know. I'll never know.

As I collect myself with long breaths—what good is mourning over the forgotten past anyway?—I have the strangest feeling. Eyes trailing my body. I remain still, concentrating. The stare flows down my lengthy pink hair to my back, across my shoulders, down my legs. Up to my ass...

I smile softly. "Marceline... You're supposed to be in the dungeons within a cell." I detach myself from the tapestry and watch the shadows between the windows carefully. Sure enough, a pale woman reveals herself. Her wild, black hair flows like rapid waters, and her pale skin a twin to the moonlight. Enchanting red eyes bewitches my smile to deepen.

She smirks in kind. "And you're supposed to dress more modestly, princess."

"I'm in my own space as my own company," I murmur playfully despite a curt tone. I shrug, my light linen nightie rising with my shoulders. "As I said, you should be in a cell for starting a fight in the tavern _again_."

Marceline chuckles, floating casually through the air with her arms behind her head. "I figured I wasn't going to wait around for you to let me out again. That _is_ what you were going to do anyway, wasn't it?" She peers at me curiously (disdainfully hopeful, more like).

I purse my lips and fold my arms. "If I happened..."

"And..." She gracefully landed on the ground at an arm's length, then carefully grabbed my hand. As Marceline knelt to the ground, she murmured against my knuckles, "That's why you wore that? For me?" My smile betrays me. And the glint in her eyes betray her.

Still, I persist: "Not if you escaped your sentence."

Marceline got to her feet, and I'm enamored by her eyes. The fiery red captivates me, though that is explained by the scarred puncture-wounds at her neck. No, it's the sheen of life that I only see from my reflection. Her eyes have watched life for hundreds of years as mine have.

I can't help but chuckle to myself; across the lands, I am known as the young princess in need of a prince to marry. The youth is what's accentuated, not my independence nor my studies of the sciences. They come to my doorstep, eager for that girl. Yet, without fail, what they find is an ancient woman incased within a youthful body. It startles them when they look in my eyes. It startles them to know that their father and their grandfather and their great-grandfather were quite possibly in their shoes, baffled by the sense of intimidation. I don't really know if they realize the truth, or they just politely back themselves away and save themselves for another girl. At this point, I'm not bothered. It's just another ritual of my life.

"What's so funny?"

I smile and wrap my arms around her neck. "Nothing. Just the suitors that are sent are becoming more frequent... And I'm still the same."

She nestles against my neck warmly. Marceline is another ritual, one far more personal, always leading to my chambers. And while it never seems to go beyond that—though at times, in my high of emotions, I think otherwise—I cling to every moment. The more I ponder, however, on the rituals and traditions we have outside my chambers, the more I wonder just how _beyond_ we aim to go.

"None are interesting, I hope."

I chuckle. "None are. You don't have to worry," I assure.

We're locked in a rhythmic sway. My head is in her shoulder, inhaling the scents that the pastor of the church would declare as sins. Bark of trees that hide themselves from civilization. The brisk, nightly air that clips my cheeks when winter comes. The alluring, honey-like aroma of her skin, driving my lust in rapt attention. The dull iron of blood, the life-source for both her and who she took it from.

Little does the pastor know, some of it's mine. Little does he know, honey makes my mouth water. Little does he know, I stay outside just for the winter's wind. And, little does anybody know, the smell of bark reminds me of our long-forgotten cabin deeply nestled within the woods—back when I was a fool and believed a princess could live with a demon, away from her kingdom.

I inhale as Marceline nips at my neck as gently as she can. Her fangs have gotten sharper over the years, not to mention longer. (I'm thankful, therefore, they can detract like cat's claws. It makes me wonder the anatomy of it all...) I run my hand through her hair, clutching her back as she leans us both further against the tapestry.

A chopped breath escapes me as a surprise-hand trails up my thigh; Marceline's always been colder to the touch. I swallow, then frown, _then_ become internally irritated. It's enough for Marceline to pause, removing her hand from underneath my nightie.

"What's wrong?"

I shake my head slowly, cupping her jaw. Her hand clutches my wrist softly. "I don't know... I'm just so— so tired." I pause and look up at her. "It's like, I'm frozen while time is moving without me."

She nods. "I know... But you've grown."

"Really...?"

Once again, a nod. However this time I'm uncertain. The glimmer in her eyes is suddenly mischievous, and I— "Ow! Fucking— _Marceline_, what was that for?!" I jerk away from her and clap a hand over the top of my hair, leaving my tiara uneven.

Marceline chuckles, holding a single strand of hair. "See? You even have some grey."

I'm flustered and smack the strand of hair irritably away. "That's from stress you— you ass!"

"I know, I know." Marceline holds my hands, her smirk still playing her lips. "But...Bonnibel, you're more of a woman than when I first met you. You're..." She stops for a moment, her cheeks blushing gently. I arch a brow. "Well, I mean, you're chest...has...and your ass. They're not...as...you know..."

I blink at her. "Spit it out," I mutter.

"Well, I mean...erm... They've, you know, filled out...a bit."

"'Filled out?'" I echoed. "'Filled _out?!' _Are you saying I've gotten fat?!"

Marceline stumbled over herself. "N-no! Bonnie, what the hell?! You had the boniest ass back then!"

"I was starved for God knows how long in the snow!"

"Well, I know, but I mean like...you got these curves that wouldn't have been there before—"

"So you're only looking at my body?" My head is spinning with delirious confusion.

"Of course not!" Marceline retorts. "You're body's not the important thing to me. I was just saying that...that..." Her voice grew small towards the end: "You're just like me Bonnie..." She works her jaw, finding her words. "You're just meant for a longer time on earth. That's all."

A inkling of guilt spreads. I burrow into her chest, noticing she'd taken a few steps backwards. "I-I'm sorry... I don't understand how, is all. I'm not a vampire like you. I'm human. I was just preserved in ice, right?"

Marceline cups my jaw, interlacing some of my curious hair between her fingers; hair isn't supposed to be pink, is it? It's unnatural. "And yet," she murmurs.

"And yet..." I repeat in agreement.

"You're beautiful."

The words startle me, more so than what the suitors may when they look at me. They twist my chest and knot my throat. I barely manage: "I-I... Marceline..."

She smiles and leans closer. I close the gap, savoring her full lips. It doesn't surprise me that she responds with vigor. The tension had finally teetered itself over, and I feel my tiara slipping. Marceline slips it off my head and rests it on the table. The table, which, she lifts me on, and where I hook my legs around her waist. And she's at my neck again, this time her nipping more needing.

I grip her back. "You just wanted some blood, didn't you?"

Marceline chuckles against my neck. "But I never said a lie," she murmurs. I swallow and pause, exposing more of my skin for her. I inhale sharply once she sinks her fangs deep, and I feel blood drain away. As always, though, she's mindful. Marceline takes her sip with a satisfied hum, then presses long kisses against the fresh puncture wound.

If I'm already (apparently) near-immortal, a vampire bite can't hurt, right?

I nuzzle against her neck. In a whisper, I say, "What are you doing tonight...?"

She looks at me. "I have a few things in mind."

There's a shared grin as we kiss. I picture my bed, realizing that I'd gotten it only a decade ago. A decade... I rip myself away from her in shock, leaving her puzzled. "Wait, have I shown you my knew bed?" The question comes out more excited and bubbly than the sultry tone I was going for.

Nevertheless, Marceline appears entertained. "New...bed?"

"When's the last time you came up here?"

Marceline blinks, then shrugs. "I...don't know. Shit, it's been a while, hasn't it? I thought that was a new painting on the bottom floor."

I bite my lip, holding her wrists. "Come on," I say, now with a more purposeful and appropriate tone. "I'll show you."

We race up the stairs, with Marceline barely having the time to snatch my tiara through my haste, and it's the youngest I've felt in a very long time. My body may be young and able to spring to life without so much a warning—with Marceline as well—but everything else has been stuck in the same routine. Wander. Lead. Dream.

By the time Marceline has planted me against my slamming door, my tiara is flung precariously towards my bed.

My hands fumble at her belt. Quickly I find that I'm impatient, something that plagues Marceline as well. She helps by shimmying her pants from her hips. It surprises her that I follow them down to my knees, tracing various shapes along her thighs. I pepper searing kisses along her naval teasingly, and she knows the type of night it would be: abrupt bursts of passion with breaks of comfortable rest in between.

And that she wasn't the only one hungry tonight.

As I begin to indulge in her sex, gaze watching her erotically, Marceline mewls a sound she wouldn't dare admit and holds my hair. Her moans fuel me as I taste a bitter-yet-sweet tang that waters my mouth. Within minutes, my knees grow irritated but she comes unraveled, her hand rooted against the door. "God...Bonnibel..." she pants, and I know I did my job well. "I...thought you forgot...how to do...that."

I whack her as I lick my lips with a playful smile. "Just because I don't usually feel like doing it doesn't mean I can't," I retort.

"Uh huh," she hums, adding, "and you haven't even shown me your bed yet." I giggle before I erupt into a playful scream with Marceline scooping me up. She hobbles to the bed with her pants still around her ankles. I laugh as I'm plopped on the bed, Marceline following suit. As I play with the collar of her shirt, she worms her way out of them with a grunt. My hands barely tease her shirt before she tears it away. Her bra is next— Or so I think when abruptly she ducks her head under my nightie.

"Marceline! This is the finest linen from across the countryside, you are not going to stretch it!" I hiss.

She tears it off without another word. I'm left baffled at her toying smirk. "There's better where I come from, princess. It's not like I wouldn't give you something like that."

I unhook her bra, too caught within my lustful aggression to be hooked on the fact she nearly ruined my fortune-and-a-half linen nightie. "I don't know why I put up with you," I grumble before responding enthusiastically to her kiss. "Maybe you can learn—" another one with a sly tongue on her part— "a thing or two from the suitors who come waltzing up my doorstep."

"They are a bunch of losers," she says gruffly, hoisting me to the pillows. As my legs anchor her hips to my own, my hands attached to her shoulders, Marceline adds, "And I think you like that I'm an ass anyway. Not many princesses can say that they've slept with yours truly."

"It's a sacrifice that has to be made."

She glowers at me, her mouth twisting in an effort not to laugh. "Or maybe you're just a priss," she counters. And at my scoff, I see her grinning smugly above me, her hips rocking slowly.

"And this is how you spend our valuable time?" I reply, swallowing a groan. "You're going to verbally abuse me?"

Marceline shakes her head, her arms hooking around so she clutches my shoulders tightly, her legs implanting themselves into the bed. Her foot nudges the tiara briefly, and she kicks it away. I don't argue. It would've been a nuisance anyway. She turns back to me, pecking my cheeks deeply. "The only way I'd waste my time with you is if I wasn't here at all," she murmurs quietly.

I moan in her ear, the rock of her hips too great to suppress. In unison, we grind against each other, kissing one another's shoulder at brief intervals. I loose track of time, distracted by her bare skin against mine, her hands clutching me tightly and hips grinding against my sensitive spot. I shiver after a while, whining into her neck. She takes the que to pump her hips at a faster pace.

My hips buck and I gasp, completely taken by surprise of the sudden rush of tremors.

I collapse into my pillows with heavy breaths. Marceline hovers, watching me with a familiar stare. It comes out whenever our nights are shared, and many times during our times outside the bedroom. And every single time—as it does now—my heart blooms. Marceline pauses over me. The glint in her eyes renders me speechless. I can't help but to stare back, breathing out the rest of my high. She whispers to me softly, her voice honeyed and full of promise. I close my mouth tight, and it worries her. The words replay in my head, working through the gears and bolts.

"Be my queen."

Before I know it, I nod. I nod and feel my chest quake, my shoulders shudder and eyes prickle. Tears are quick to stream down as I cling onto her, Marceline still shocked by my initial lack of an answer. "Yes... I'd like that more than anything."

The void in my chest is filling.

"Without a doubt, Marcy." She holds me tight, resting herself against the pillows. "I'll be your queen. Until the day I die."

Marceline grins. She runs a hand through my hair. "Then let me be the queen of my world."

* * *

I haven't done first-person in a long while so...let me know what you think?

Anyway, hope you enjoyed!

:)


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